After an epic nosedive down the elevator of success, Ivy now finds herself in Purgatory having to start all over again from scratch but this time the stakes for getting promoted to the pearly gates are even higher. And to make a promotion in the ever after, she’s going to have to manage not only her own dating dilemmas but those of her clutzy, dating-disaster assistant.

Luckily she has two of the hottest men in the afterlife as her advisors. One who wants to help her get demoted to his bachelor pad down under and another who wants her to get her wings and live with him on a cloud. Did I mention they’re both super sexy with a wicked rivalry going on between them? Both determined to outdo the other to win her heart.

And that’s in between spending quality girl-time with her new besties, Satan and her soap opera addicted Purgatory Counselor.

This is a great read for anyone who loved ABC Family’s Teen Spirit with Cassie Scerbo. This is the adult version where the ghost [Ivy] and her hopeless dating assignment [Lucy] both get to date cute boys!

Stew
whipped up a liquid version of an Ambien martini for Lucy, which she tossed
back in another gulp, like the amnesia whammy. I guess seeing your lifelong
crush diminished to a pretentious, naked stump would cause anyone to start
drinking heavily.

"That
should wear off in about twenty-four hours."

"An
entire day? Isn't that kind of long?"

Stew held
his hands up in a defensive pose. "It was only meant to be sipped. You
should have warned me your friend was such a lush."

We dropped
her off in my apartment, which the super finally vacated.

"Nice
place," commented Stew, walking through the living room. "What
happened to all the furniture?"

Tess
happened, but that seemed too whiny to explain all over again. "You know
how I like modern things. As soon as something reaches its one-year
anniversary, I throw it away."

"Good
for you. That'll teach it for getting old. I guess that leaves more room to
dance."

"Dance?
There's no music." Plus, I broke the remote for the stereo, and even if we
found it, Tess burned down the speakers.

Somehow, he
piped in some music from the sixties that could only be described as groovy. It
wasn't my first choice for dance music, but I guess that's what happens when
you date older men.

"It's
a shame to waste all of this open space you created with your Children of the
Corn interior decorating style." Stew slipped off his shirt, while
undulating his hips. "Didn't you say you liked lap dances? Patrick taught
me some of his moves."

I giggled
at his mock lap dance and retorted, "First, there's no place to sit for a
lap dance; and second, no sober girl wants a lap dance, ever."

Using his
shirt like a lasso, he circled my waist and pulled me closer. His chest felt
like a smooth rock with valleys and crevices separating each muscle plate.

He released
me and changed the music to a jazz ballad. After redressing himself in a
long-sleeved, button-down shirt, he bowed at the waist and held out his hand,
like a perfect gentleman, asking, "May I?"

His hand
might as well been the Vulcan sign for peace. The last time a guy asked me to
dance, he indicated so by accidentally bumping into me on the dance floor at
Rockit, and rubbing his crotch against my butt. Bowing and asking for
permission were foreign concepts to me, and never as a prelude to dancing.

"Uh,
sure," I spat out, placing my hand in his.

Mistaking
my trepidation for dislike, Stew gave me a reassuring wink and changed the music
again. This sounded like strictly violins.

Putting one
arm on his left shoulder, and the other at a forty-five degree angle felt
awkward and exciting all at the same time. This was too good to be true, and I
kept waiting for him to do something jerk-like that would validate all my
preconceived notions of male demons, which pretty well matched how I felt about
those that were still living.

It sounded
and felt like a waltz, but since I'd never gone waltzing, I wasn't sure. I
vaguely recalled something about waltzes being in three/four time.
One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three. If only I had paid more attention
in gym class during group dancing instruction. For once, I was glad not to have
a camera or mirror so I didn’t have to see how much I was mucking it up.

Stew must
have agreed because he stopped dancing.

"Ivy,
you know that I'm the man, right?"

Was that
some sort of chauvinistic reinforcement of his place in the world? He didn't
seem like an idiot, but he was a man. They all had some inherent, built-in
idiot switch.

"You're
leading," he said in an accusatory manner.

Really? I
had no clue what I was doing, let alone leading. My entire focus was on
avoiding his feet or tripping over my own. "I didn't mean to. I've never
waltzed before. Assuming this is a waltz. I can't even tell if this is a waltz
or a foxtrot."

How old was
this guy? "I know you said you grew up in the sixties, but did you mean
the nineteen sixties? Or the eighteen sixties?"

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Hello, I’m Lisa London, creator of secret fantasies you love to escape with, bringing you an overload of bad-boy angst and heart-wrenching moments of truth on every page.

I’m so glad you’re here – because we’re a lot alike, you and I. We both love to escape to a world where true love is found in life-defining moments that build character, turn boys into men and make you question everything you’ve ever held sacred. Good boys are boring and oh so blah. But bad boys. You know…the ones to whom rules don’t apply to. The ones that do what they want, take what they want and use who they want and don’t give a damn. Yah, those guys. They’re also the ones that make you hot with desire, dripping with anticipation and wishing your phone would ring at 2 am afterwards.

I write in a variety of romance genres: 1) Hot + Steamy: These are fast + dirty short stories that are high on the heat scale 2) Amateur Sleuth: Think Stephanie Plum meets White Collar 3) Paranormal: Just because you’re dead doesn’t mean you stop dating and 4) Author Platform Building: The Romance Roadmap Quickies are How-To guides on everything indie authors need for online marketing.